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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359507">Following the rules</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautifulisntit/pseuds/Beautifulisntit'>Beautifulisntit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst if you REALLY squint, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, It's For a Case, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 04, Rated teen for language, Rosie is mentioned, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Whump, Tiny bit of Angst, bed sharing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:08:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautifulisntit/pseuds/Beautifulisntit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Come on Sherlock you have to lay down. We can talk about this later.” But Sherlock was tired of it. So tired. Of laters which never came. Of missed opportunities. He felt like the blow to his head really was getting to him because he wanted to scream. To say things he shouldn’t say. He was exhausted. So exhausted.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> <br/>After the events of Season 4, everything seems to be back to normal in 221B Baker Street. But a case and a strong blow to the head might be exactly what Sherlock and John need to face what is left of their friendship and what could come out of it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>414</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingbatch/gifts">consultingbatch</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my very first fic and it's not Betaed so I hope you'll bear with me. Your comments would be highly appreciated!</p><p>This is for Alice, thank you so much for always having my back and for being an amazing friend on the bird app.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun was slowly rising through the heavy curtains, shedding its golden light across the carpet of the living room of 221B Baker Street. The flat was calm and peaceful. Unusually so, considering the habits of its inhabitants. It had been unusually calm and peaceful for quite some time now. Ever since friendships and families had been broken by a violent East wind. A calm and peacefulness only punctuated by heavy sighs coming from the couch. </p><p>Sherlock’s mornings only started at the first signs of life from the bedroom upstairs. He knew it by heart, this routine, even after all these years, even after what happened. It would start by a shift, barely audible, then a muffled but heavy sigh, followed by the bed creaking and soft footsteps on the wooden floor. He also knew that John always stopped at his door before going downstairs. Mentally preparing himself to face whatever mess Sherlock created. Even though these days, they would only wake up to calm and peacefulness, the recklessness and light banter of their beginning traded for a careful cohabitation to keep the fragile grounds they were walking on ever since the tempest. Sherlock hated it with all his being. This carefulness. But even so, the habit stayed. And only made it worse, reminding them of what once was and what was now. </p><p>And so Sherlock waited, his heart beating just a bit louder when the door opened. Just a bit louder with each heavy steps down the stairs. He hid his longing look quickly, trading it for the carefully studied bored attitude he’s been practising for decades.</p><p>“Morning.” </p><p>He looked up greeted by the sight of a waking John Watson. His morning stubble, the spikes of his greying hair, the bags under his eyes, slightly less visible ever since Rosie was sent to Sherlock’s parents for the holidays. The respite being both a blessing and a curse, the absence of the child only underlining the growing distance between the two of them. He carefully ignored the statement. This is what used to be normal. </p><p>“Tea?” </p><p>The question was only answered with a dramatic, heavy sigh. John rolled his eyes: “I’ll take that as a yes…”</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth that came in the room with the doctor, opening them at the sound of a cup of tea materializing next to him. He breathed in quickly, rising to a sitting position before ruffling his hair and taking the cup, avoiding looking at his friend and mumbling: </p><p>“I broke your mug this morning. The one with the stupid smiling face on it.”</p><p>“You broke what?” </p><p>One quick glance was enough to see John had risen from his seat, frowning. Focused on his cup, Sherlock reassured him with a dismissive gesture: “Don’t worry I’m okay”. </p><p>He could picture almost perfectly John's eyebrows rising to his hairline, the cup in his hands being a little too carefully put down on the small wooden table next to the red chair. </p><p>“That’s not-” </p><p>“Also I fixed it" He cut in, "I just thought you should know since you only swear by that godforsaken list. Rule two. You wouldn’t even have seen it, but then you hardly ever notice anything.” </p><p>“Are you talking about Rosie’s list of rules on the fridge?” John asked, incredulous.</p><p>Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow: “Didn’t you spend an hour explaining to her that it would apply to <i>all</i> the members of the household? I remember quite well the very pointed look in my direction.” </p><p>John scoffed, lying back in his chair: “I thought you weren’t listening.” </p><p>Sherlock crossed his arms, lying back down on the couch, his back facing the sitting room: “I was trying very hard to ignore you.” </p><p>Sherlock only heard a small amused huff but that was the only thing he needed. He made his friend smile. A small victory for the battle which was now his everyday life. A constant fight to keep John by his side. These rules didn't seem to be much, but it was a promise. Unspoken. Between them. One he intended to keep this time. </p><p>“I still don’t know why you were sulking that day.” John mused. Sherlock turned his head around, glaring at the man behind him from above his shoulder: “I wasn’t sulking.” </p><p>A dubious glance, and a roll of eyes again: “Of course you weren’t.” </p><p>“But I don’t like it when you yell at me like I am a child.” He smiled, just in time to hear the crisp intake of breath. Oh, how easy it was to rile John up. Even after all this time.</p><p>“Then don’t throw fucking scissors!” </p><p>Their eyes crossed and they smiled at each other. A very small and broken thing, but a smile nonetheless. For a splitting second, they were back. Just like old times. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat, his hands clammy. He raised a challenging eyebrow, enjoying the fragile moment while it lasted: “I guess I should join rule number two to rule number one.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I am sorry, for the mug.”</p><p>John just shook his head, eyes shining: “Fuck off.” And Sherlock laughed. A tiny rumble. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed. It felt like ages ago.</p><p>This brief moment of respite was broken by the ringing of a phone. His. He already knew it was Lestrade, with a new case. He couldn't quite bring himself to answer it yet. Another thing that changed. He would’ve jumped on the occasion before. Flying away on a new adventure. Because the game was on the moment the phone rang. But that was before. Before, when John still accompanied him on cases. Before, when cases didn’t interrupt their fragile moments of <i>what could be more</i> but heightened them. It was too late. He could almost physically feel it. The calm was here yet again but not the peacefulness. John’s shoulders tensed again. His eyes riveted on the carpet. And so Sherlock sighed a long and tired sigh and answered the phone.<br/>
</p><p>Lestrade was quick and efficient for once. A woman had been murdered, they needed help, as they always did. One thing that never changed. Sherlock was barely listening, his focus trained on the old soldier next to him. He hadn’t been on cases because someone had to take care of Rosie. But now? Should he ask? Was there anything else to lose? 

</p><p>“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.” Sherlock hung up. He put his coat on, his scarf, his gloves, still pondering. He could feel John’s stare, a prickling but familiar sensation on his neck. It was intoxicating.</p><p> <i>Rule 3: Ask for help. Be responsible and accept the consequences of your actions.</i></p><p>He stood there a bit longer, without turning around, pretending to type a quick message on his phone. Pretending. Always pretending these days. He took a deep breath in, squeezed his eyes shut, ridiculously hopeful in spite of himself: “Would you...” He swallowed, starting again, stupid, <i>stupid</i>: “Your help would be greatly...appreciated. If you’d like to come of course.” A shaky breath behind him, a moment of silence. This hateful silence again. Sherlock breathed out, he knew it. He should’ve seen it, deduced it, that it was not welcomed. Not anymore. Hand on the door, caught up in his head again, he almost missed the light touch on his arm making him instinctively flinch. He turned around. John hastily removed his hand, a pained look in his eyes but still muttered: “Let me take my coat, I’ll be right behind.” </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_________________</p>
</div><p>The case was fairly simple in theory, Amanda Taylor was lying on the floor of her lover's flat: a dispute gone wrong, said lover strangely missing from the scene. An obvious solution. Catching Nicholas Davies, their suspect, became a bit more difficult. The case dragged on until the evening, finding them both running after the man in an alley, a filthy and dimly lit street, the echoing sound of their rushed footsteps enveloping them. Distracted, trying to keep track of the man they were chasing but also to stay aware of John behind him, Sherlock missed the fence right in front of him, a strong grip on his coat preventing him to run into it with full force. They were stuck. </p><p>Before, Sherlock would've been tempted to run behind their suspect immediately. But now, especially after everything that happened between them, the idea to abandon his friend behind didn't even cross his mind.</p><p>This didn't prevent the rough grip on his coat for the second time this evening. Not his hand, or his arm he realized. Not anymore. Storming blue eyes were staring right through him: 

</p><p>“Don’t you dare run off without me. You don’t get to leave me behind.”</p><p>Sherlock’s breath hitched at the intensity of the words, disbelief and pain a heavy weight on his chest. Was it what John truly thought of him? After everything? Sherlock felt a sudden urge to let his friend know. That too much happened, that he wouldn't. That he couldn't. He put his hands on John's shoulders, hesitant, always hesitant these days, throat heavy:</p><p>“You know I’m not leaving you. Not again. I promised.” John averted his eyes and struggled out of the grip: “Right...Sure.”</p><p>They started walking again in the opposite direction, surrounded by the noise of the city, their footsteps, their heavy breathing. Sherlock frowned and stammered: “Why can’t you just believe me?” “We have a suspect getting away Sherlock.”</p><p>The detective huffed in frustration, he needed John to understand: “John…” hearing his name, the Doctor turned around and stared, eyes full of resentment, of sadness, of <i>pain</i>: “Because you lied about it before” and started running again. </p><p>They cornered the criminal quite easily. The saddest part was they still worked unbelievably well together. <i>We’ll always be a good team</i> Sherlock thought, bitter. Good partners, even after everything. Saving each other, helping the other through danger, looking after each other, it was what they did, what they’ve always done, and all they had left. The fight was messy, quick and the suspect was forcefully handcuffed by John, but not before hitting Sherlock on the head with a brick he found on the floor as a desperate attempt to run away again. </p><p>Sherlock stumbled on the alley wall, head spinning. He raised a trembling hand to the top of his skull, palping the wound. Breathless, he sat down, holding himself against a garbage bin and closed his eyes. With white stars clouding his vision and a ringing in his ear he still managed to hear John’s voice, an angry snarl, followed by a thud and the suspect’s loud grunt before he felt his friend by his side again.</p><p>“Are you okay? Can I touch you, Sherlock? I need to check your head.”</p><p>The quiet hum must've been interpreted as a positive answer because soon enough, he could feel a careful hand slowly threading through his curls. He felt more than he saw John’s relieved breath: “You probably have a concussion but I don’t see any blood. You’ll be fine.”</p><p>Sherlock scrunched his nose, the confusion receding, and found the strength to mumble: “It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” He could see John rolling his eyes, relaxing after seeing his friend had yet to stop his snarking comments, just in time for an officer to interrupt them: “I’m going to need to ask you to leave the scene, we can’t have you stay around here.”</p><p>At the young man’s tone, John almost hissed his answer, still on edge: “Can’t you see he got hurt? We’ll leave when we feel like it.” </p><p>“Calm down sir.” </p><p>“This is calm and it’s Doctor.”</p><p>Arms raised in surrender and an apologetic look on his face, the officer left them in peace after sending them a curious look. Stunned by the exchange, Sherlock barely acknowledged John’s words “Tell me when you’re ready to go home.” Nodding, Sherlock failed to realize John’s hands hadn't left his hair.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_________________</p>
</div><p>The ride home was mostly silent, the space filled with Sherlock’s ragged breathes of complaint, every loud noise around them sending shots of pain reverberating all around his head. He felt like he might throw up. Out of the cab, John somehow managed to hoist Sherlock up the stairs, a careful grip around his waist. </p><p>They stopped in the bathroom and Sherlock heavily sat down the toilet lid. His eyes lost in the dimly lit tiles of the floor, he could barely make out the sounds of the busy street muffled by the closed wooden door, the space only filled with the sound of John's clothes ruffling as he moved around him and droplets of water sporadically dripping down the sink. </p><p>“How do you feel?” </p><p>Sherlock looked up to find John staring at a point above his shoulder, a glass of water in one hand, a pill in the other. Sherlock took both gratefully and rasped: “I’m fine.” </p><p>He heard John’s irritated huff and watched carefully the trembling hand he was passing through his hair in annoyance: “What about rule 2 Sherlock? Do you remember? Be honest.”</p><p>It was Sherlock’s turn to look away, he sighed heavily a hand rubbing his eyes: “I feel dizzy, tired, but I don’t feel like I need to throw up anymore.” </p><p>“Good.” </p><p>Sherlock looked up once again, studying his friend’s face for the first time this evening. He looked exhausted, worried. More so than usual. He was standing further away than he would have done before. Before everything. He was doing all he could to avoid Sherlock’s deducing gaze. Another thing they didn't do anymore. Look into each other’s eyes. As stupid as it sounded. They used to have their eyes riveted on each other, challenging, daring. Every one of these looks used to feel exhilarating. A shared look used to be all they needed. A look. The first thing they ever shared actually. The day they met. An eternity ago.</p><p>He felt a knot in his throat. An unexpected burst of emotion, burning his eyes, weighing on his chest. He took a shaky breath and put a hand against the wall, ready to get up, ready to go to bed, ready to leave the ghost of what was left of them behind. He felt the man in front of him shift and he had to settle down as John came closer, brows furrowed, hand reaching close to Sherlock’s hair but not touching. Never touching. Not when it was not absolutely needed. </p><p>“Can I check one last time? I could see it better in the light.” </p><p>John’s voice came out as strangled in the tight space. Sherlock studied him a moment before spreading his legs, inviting John to come closer. Just before reaching the dark curls, John stoped: “Is this okay?” </p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was so tired: “Of course it’s okay why wouldn’t it be.”</p><p>John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and the fleeting pain and regret across his face was enough for Sherlock to understand. He glanced up, took John’s hand slowly and put it on his head. “It’s fine John, really.” They were not talking about the wound anymore and they both knew it. A sigh of regret, silence again and a faint whisper: “It really isn’t.” </p><p>Gone was the tenderness of the touch in the alley. This was clinical. John was only doing his job. Again. He was closing up. Again. Hiding. Again. A deep breath in, and out, a throat clearing and John was turning around, washing his hands: “It’s all good. I’ll probably have to wake you up tonight to check on you but it should be fine. You should go to bed. Tell me if you need anything.” His voice sounded too loud in the silent bathroom. He dried his hands a little too forcefully on a towel on Sherlock’s right and turned to leave. Like he always did. Like they always did. Leaving, running away, escaping, hiding. Sherlock was so tired of it. He gripped his hand on the fabric of his pants, trying to control the violent and nervous shaking.</p><p>“John…” </p><p>He didn't even know what to say. Didn’t even realize what he said until voiced it out loud. John just stopped at the door not turning around, shoulders tense. Lost, Sherlock blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Look at me.” </p><p>The answer was immediate, chocked: “I can’t.” </p><p>“But why?” </p><p>A hand clenching and unclenching sporadically, a deep breath caught in a throat. This weirdly felt like it could be the end of them Sherlock realized. He tried to stand, slowly walking to the man in front of him. He could feel his head throb as the white dots clouded his eyes, but he needed an answer. Spoken out loud. He finally whispered: “Why John?”</p><p>John finally turned around, his eyes tracing the contour of Sherlock’s face, his neck, his nose and finally, with difficulty, settled on his eyes: “Because I don’t know how to look you in the eyes after all the things I’ve done.”</p><p>Feeling dizzy again, Sherlock had to put a hand on the doorframe to find his balance. This time, John didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s side to help him through his room and Sherlock was grateful for it. “Come on Sherlock you have to lay down. We can talk about this later.” But Sherlock was tired of it. So tired. Of laters which never came. Of missed opportunities. He felt like the blow to his head really was getting to him because he wanted to scream. To say things he shouldn’t say. He was exhausted. So exhausted.</p><p>Lying down, he gripped John’s arm: “We can’t. I need to…” He could feel his throat sizing up again. He was panicking. John sat on the bed by his side, careful not to let his thigh brush Sherlock's chest. This hateful carefulness again.</p><p>“Calm down Sherlock. Breathe.”</p><p>He didn't realize he grabbed John’s hand until he heard the sharp gasp next to him: “Please don’t leave me.” he pleaded silently, panting, before cursing himself for sounding so desperate. </p><p>He felt John tense momentarily beside him before relaxing slightly, holding more firmly Sherlock’s hand between his. John breathed: “I don’t want to go.” </p><p>Not leaving his hand, John fumbled with the pillows behind Sherlock's head to hoist him up. Sherlock inhaled deeply, settling more comfortably in the bed. No one spoke for a moment. The light of the streets was basking the room in a dim yellow glow through the curtains. Water was running somewhere in the flat next to their's, they could hear the faint sound of music from a pub nearby, the sound of their controlled breaths being the loudest noise in the room. It was calm again. But still not peaceful. The emptiness felt heavy, filled with a decade of words hanging between them. After a while, the medication slowly kicked in, calming Sherlock's breathing, fogging his brain. He couldn't help but whisper: “I’m so tired.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>With a pained grimace, and heavy eyes, Sherlock looked up at his friend: “No you don’t. All of this John. It’s exhausting. I don’t know how to do it anymore.” </p><p>John's answer was a sad smile, and then with a trembling voice: “I know, Sherlock.”</p><p>But Sherlock couldn't stop now: “I’m sorry. I tried my best, I still do but it’s not enough, it’s never enough. With you, with Rosie. Rule 5 John. What is it again? Be kind, think about others and not just yourself. But I don’t know how to do it, I-” </p><p>He stopped abruptly, feeling a hand on his hair, an answering whisper: “You don’t need to apologize anymore Sherlock." John paused for a moment, seemingly looking for the right words, swallowing around something painful to admit: "I’ve been selfish and I hurt you. I am sorry." John looked away, eyes glossy: "I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. And you’re right. We have a lot to talk about. And you know it’s hard for me. To talk about this stuff. But I need you to know that you are enough." Clearing his throat, he added quietly, probably to himself: "I just feel like I don’t deserve any of it.” </p><p>John stood up and Sherlock almost panicked again but the doctor was only taking a couple of steps around the bed, stopping at the edge of it for just a moment, uncertain, before laying on top of the covers by Sherlock's side.</p><p>The fog was getting thicker and thicker, clouding Sherlock's mind. He could feel his eyes drop. He couldn't fall asleep. There was so much left unsaid. A hesitant hand on his hair, the warmth getting closer, another whisper: “You need to sleep Sherlock.” Sherlock sighed and couldn't help but curl up closer to the body next to his, not quite touching. He was barely conscious when he murmured:</p><p>“I don’t want to feel this way around you. I want things to be normal. I want to be your friend. I want my best friend back.” </p><p>The hold around him got tighter and he could swear he felt the whisper of lips against his forehead. “We’re not just friends Sherlock. You know that. We’ve never been.” It was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>________________</p>
</div><p>The sun was slowly rising through the heavy curtains, shedding its golden light across the carpet of the bedroom of 221B Baker Street. The flat was calm and peaceful. Unusually so considering the habits of its inhabitant. It has been unusually calm and peaceful for quite some time now. A calm and peacefulness Sherlock welcomed for once, as he slowly woke up. The faint ache at the back of his head a distant memory. He felt warm, almost too warm as he breathed in the familiar and comforting scent around him. John’s.</p><p>His eyes flew open and he tensed in the arms of his friend before sitting down abruptly. He groaned, his head pounding, remembering his behaviour, the things he said. Cursing himself for his weakness. Then he remembered John, just before he fell asleep. Well, glimpses of it. Why couldn't he <i>think.</i> He felt drunk and hungover at the same time. Was that even possible?</p><p>After a few seconds, a hesitant hand settled on his lower back, lightly gripping the shirt he was still wearing from last night, followed by the rasp of a waking voice: “Don’t.”</p><p>A confused frown: “What?”</p><p>“Don’t start second guessing what you said or what I said. I don’t know. Can we just...be here? For a moment?”</p><p>“I guess.” </p><p>“Good.”</p><p>Sherlock finally relaxed a little. The hand was gone and they stayed silent for a moment, the quiet becoming more uncomfortable every second. After a deep sight, Sherlock heard John sitting against the headboard and a careful hand on his shoulder invited him to turn around. A finger lifted his chin and Sherlock was suddenly faced with tired deep blue eyes. “How is your head?” Sherlock swallowed but nodded before clearing his throat: “Fine, it’s fine.”</p><p>The silence was deafening. Sherlock could see John wanted to say something. He noticed the way John's brows were furrowed, pondering, the way he was worrying his teeth on his bottom lip, nervous, the way his fingers were fumbling with the sheet beneath them, unsure. The distance between them felt like a void. Insurmountable.</p><p>“I need to tell you something.”</p><p>Sherlock joined John against the headboard. Side to side it felt easier. If staring at each other was no longer the solution, maybe the dark would be able to help. Silent, his mind racing, Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. </p><p>“I’m tired too. You know, of hiding all the time. And I miss it too, us I mean. What we were. But at the same time I-I don’t. Because it was never…” He breathed in and out, Sherlock could easily picture John looking up, looking for words, could picture the turn of his lips, the clenched fist at his side: “God I’m bad at this.”</p><p>Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock could feel John watching him. A sensation he was accustomed to after feeling it riveted on him for years. He turned his head slowly to the side and opened his eyes, immediately meeting the gaze of his best friend. Because despite everything that happened, or maybe in spite of it, John was still his best friend.</p><p>Their shared look must unleash something inside John because the next thing he blurted out was the last thing Sherlock expected at this moment: “I’m in love with you.” And John laughed, a tiny nervous laugh, full of disbelief, probably equally surprised, before regaining his composure: “I’ve always been in fact, I think. And I know that especially with Rosie to consider now this can’t possibly be the right time to admit it but what you said yesterday made me real-”</p><p>“Say it again.” </p><p>Sherlock’s eyes had closed again. A pained expression on his face Sherlock knew John couldn't comprehend.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Sherlock stared at him, a small smile on his lips: “Say it again. Please.”</p><p>John’s voice was only a reverent whisper when he said: “I’m in love with you Sherlock.” </p><p>Sherlock could barely describe the feeling that washed over him. He felt like something was exploding in his chest, stealing his breath. He almost felt like he could be sick from the intensity of it. He regained control over his features to watch John carefully. Studying. Daring. </p><p>“So what should we do then?” </p><p>The face in front of him went from confusion to panic so fast it was laughable: “What do you mean what should we do? I thought-”</p><p>“Since we’re in love with each other, what should we do now?” Sherlock asked voice filled with his usual haughty impatience. </p><p>The silence only lasted a few seconds before Sherlock felt a pillow crashing on his arm. He snorted.</p><p>“You utter cock, I was laying my heart open you just scared the shit out of me!” </p><p>Maybe it was out of nervousness, maybe it was out of relief, years of secrets weighing their shoulders and hearts down finally being lifted but suddenly, they both started to laugh. Something bright, bordering on hysterical. As usual, at the most inappropriate of time. That was the exact moment they both knew. They would be fine. They still had a lot to talk about, a lot of things to resolve but after all this time maybe they still had each other after all.</p><p>They both started to sober up. Avoiding each other’s eyes for an entirely other reason now. </p><p>“John?”</p><p>John looked up and Sherlock could see him admiring the soft pink probably high up his cheeks: "Yes Sherlock?”</p><p>“Do you think you could, I mean would you be amenable to-”</p><p>“Kiss you?” </p><p>Sherlock lifted his head so fast he almost hit the headboard: “I mean that’s not precisely what I was about to ask but that can be arranged.”</p><p>“Oh…” It was John's turn to redden, embarrassed: “Sorry… What were you about to-”</p><p>“Nevermind I like your idea better.”</p><p>John rolled his eyes, and put a careful hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock didn't mind this kind of carefulness, it was endearing, reassuring. Tentative fingers slid up his neck and cupped his jaw. Sherlock felt like his brain was about to implode. He noticed he closed his eyes when he had to open them again at John’s laugh:</p><p>“Breathe Sherlock.”</p><p>Shaking his head, Sherlock choked out: “I can’t.”</p><p>Eyes full of mirth and of something Sherlock decided could only be love, John shook his head and, his gaze still riveted to Sherlock's, brushed their lips together before pulling back, nuzzling his nose across Sherlock’s cheek, his jaw. A strong breath out, an annoyed huff, a small smile: “You can do it for real now.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“John…”</p><p>Their lips finally met. It was soft, tender, careful, so careful. Parting one more time, their foreheads pressed together, Sherlock whispered against John’s lips with a smile: “Rule 4.” Knowing John would understand. He always did in the end. </p><p> </p>
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</div><p>HOUSE RULES  </p><p>1. Be respectful: treat everyone with respect and remember to say please, thank you, I’m sorry and you’re welcome.</p><p>2. Be honest: tell the truth- don’t omit details, say what you mean and follow through on your word.</p><p>3. Be responsible: Accept the consequences of your actions, apologise, ask for help, clean up your own mess and think of others before you act.</p><p>4. Be grateful : be thankful for what you have- show gratitude towards other.</p><p>5. Be Kind : Think about others and not just yourself- do nice things for each other, be nice to yourself and be positive towards others.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cover</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A cover for this story made by one of my favourite fic author allsovacant</p>
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    <p>The cover made by the incredibly talented allsovacant &lt;3</p>
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